


I Hold Together With The Weight Of A Feather

by number_of_the_beast_is_666



Series: Musketeer March 2021 [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Mentions of amputation and slight gore, Musketeer March 2021, Set after Aramis leaves for Douai but before they go to war (shush I don't know my timelines)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:48:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29788059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/number_of_the_beast_is_666/pseuds/number_of_the_beast_is_666
Summary: For Musketeer March 2021, Day 1: SewingAramis has left for Douai and his loss is felt by Athos.Title from "Three Songs for Sewing" by Hazel Hall.
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay & Athos | Comte de la Fère, Aramis | René d'Herblay & d'Artagnan & Athos | Comte de la Fère & Porthos du Vallon, Aramis | René d'Herblay/Athos | Comte de la Fère, Athos | Comte de la Fère & Porthos du Vallon, Athos | Comte de la Fère/Porthos du Vallon, can be read as either romantic or platonic - Relationship
Series: Musketeer March 2021 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2189571
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	I Hold Together With The Weight Of A Feather

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not too sure of the timelines of this show, but it best fits for after Aramis has left but before they go to war.  
> There is descriptions of gore to do with amputation, so read at your own risk, though it is a small part.
> 
> Many thanks to @ privateerstudies on Tumblr for creating Musketeer March!  
> (Apologies for any mistakes!)

Blood wells up again and Athos muffles a sound as he jerks the needle away, cursing the dark of nighttime, cursing the fabric of his cloak, cursing the wretch who managed to cut his cloak but didn’t even have the decency to properly land a hit.

“You’re s’posed to use the needle on your cloak, not your hands.”

The soft voice startles him, and, sure enough, he pricks himself again with the needle, this time whispering a sharp curse and making Porthos chuckle.

“Well, I’ve not the skilful hands of a seamstress, my friend.”

Athos can find some humour in his predicament, but it doesn’t erase the _not like he did_ that they both hear. The ghost that haunts them, the spectre of friendship that strays outside the edges of conversation but never quite truly leaves.

He’s missed like a limb, aching always and agonizing on cold nights, taking a step only to fall into the gaping hole of what once was there. It’s different for them all, Athos supposes, but it follows the same pattern.  
At first, a raw stump, torn flesh sewed back together shoddily with too many gaps and too much thread, not enough flesh left to salvage.  
The burn of a fever, the hot flush of anger, so fast it’ll either leave you in tatters to darn yourself back together or burn you up.  
Now it’s just sitting awake at night and remembering. And apparently, he isn’t the only one doing that.

The city is, well, as quiet as it gets, just the gentle hum of people holed up in houses and the faint cheers muffled from inside the taverns.  
And yet he didn’t hear Porthos.  
Either Porthos is a lot sneakier than Athos gives him credit for or sewing is a lot more captivating than Athos had thought. (Certainly the latter, says the voice in his head that sounds an awful much like Aramis.)

Athos turns his head to where Porthos is standing, leaning against one of the wooden support columns, half in shadows, candlelight glinting off his teeth and Athos is reminded of every time Aramis stood there and smiled the same way.  
That’s painful, too. Seeing Aramis around him.  
And no one can even be blamed for it.  
He’s in the tales of licentious misadventures he hears from the recruits, he’s in the precise bullseye from the steadied gun of a Musketeer, he’s in the unshakeable and sure hands of Constance when she wipes the blood from d’Artagnan’s brow.  
He’s in the cocksure look that d’Artagnan makes after he hits his first target, confidence washing away uncertainty, charging into the skirmish with the courage of the heroes from legend.  
He’s in the lazy grin that spreads across Porthos’ tired face in the mornings, not accompanied by his booming laugh but not lacking the warmth of it.  
He’s in Athos’ own face when he sees himself in the mirror, lines stitched into his face from years of knit brows, another man’s expression on his features.  
How much of them is really them? And how much is eachother?

“You’re thinking too much.”  
Porthos’ smile has slipped from his face now as he slips from the shadows and straddles the bench beside Athos.

Athos had chosen to sit in the garrison courtyard to catch the slowly-dying summer light, and it catches on Porthos’ white shirt, open at the throat, making it lie pale blue against the dark skin of his chest, and that too reminds Athos of Aramis.  
But it also reminds him of Porthos.

Blistering days spent on horseback, shirts undone to gain some respite from the unrelenting heat, sharing jokes over campfires in the early morning.

Athos has always lived in his past but he doesn’t want to repeat his mistakes; losing love in the present because he hasn’t quite pulled himself together from losing love in the past isn’t something he wants to live again.

He didn’t lose everything this time though.

Porthos is sitting next to him close enough Athos can feel him, close enough that Athos doesn’t quite feel like he’s spilling out of his seams like he does when he’s alone.

“You pulled too hard. Look, it makes the fabric bunch up and-”

Porthos cuts himself off, lips pressing together like he needs to force himself quiet.  
Like he needs to for Athos’ sake. It’s not like he can’t understand why.  
Aramis was in those words, in the intonation, like a scolding mother, in the words themselves, almost verbatim from Aramis’ mouth.

Oh, he does understand. He wants to shut all the memories up, sew them up inside himself and hoard them like jewels.  
But he also doesn’t think he could bear it.

Right after he left, d’Artagnan mentioned Aramis every other sentence, but he stopped after Athos and Porthos went quiet after hearing his name. Now they don't say his name, if they refer to him at all, letting other bring him up until they too understand he is not to be talked of.

Porthos, Athos knows, holds anger, amongst other things, but anger is the one that flares up and boils over.  
Athos doesn’t know what he feels.  
But both of them had too much, too much that if they let it out before they were ready and before it was cooled they’d immolate.

D’Artagnan felt Aramis’s loss, but in a different way, one Athos can’t understand, one that means he wants to talk and regale the past and tell stories to cadets about the legendary Musketeer and awaiting his return.  
Athos can’t understand, nor stand, it.  
It makes him want to scream and rage and shout and he still doesn’t understand it.

But Porthos knows it, better than he himself knows it.

And Porthos knows that the stitches need to be sewn, the wound needs to be pulled together so it can heal right, so he can carry on and not grow to be bitter and rotten.

He knows what Athos needs, and it is a warm hand on his shoulder, moving down his back as Porthos tucks his legs beneath the table and leans into his space, one hand still on his back and Athos cannot feel the tingling pain of his pricked fingertips any more, only the firm line of Porthos’ leg against his and the grounding weight on his ribcage. He leans just a bit closer, breaking whatever propriety they had as his chest leans against Athos's arm, the rising and falling of his breaths making Athos move with the almost imperceptibly gentle sway of it.

“C’mon, I’ll help you out. He tried to teach me after stitchin’ me up enough that I picked some up. I’m comfortable here, though, so you gotta listen.”

Porthos’ breath is warm on his ear and Athos can barely listen to his voice he’s so close, but he manages to keep up, to listen to Porthos’ gentle clucking at the mess he’s made of his cloak, to stitch himself back together with Porthos guidance. If they can sew and dress his wounds, they won’t fester and he’ll heal, and Aramis either will come back or he won’t, but they’ll be okay.

And, tomorrow, when Athos mentions Aramis by name, Porthos doesn’t share d’Artagnan’s look of surprise.


End file.
